


Young Enough to Know Better, Entirely too Old to Care

by USSFriendship



Series: WinterHawk Mandatory Fun Day [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Barton is a punk, M/M, Retirement, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18367715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/USSFriendship/pseuds/USSFriendship
Summary: Clint retires and finally has a chance to live out the punk fantasies of his youth.





	Young Enough to Know Better, Entirely too Old to Care

**Author's Note:**

> This one was bunches of fun, and a couple bits were actually oddly personal, which was new and interesting for me. 
> 
> Betaed by the always exceptions [FadedSepia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia), to whom I am eternally grateful.

Bucky wasn’t surprised by the request, not really, but he was more than a little confused. Was Clint aware of what he was asking? He was standing there looking so eager and so hopeful, holding a tube of lipstick, like it was nothing. Like he had just asked for a cup of coffee, and not for a lipstick kiss on the side of his neck, so his tattooer would have an exact lip print to trace over. With a tattoo gun. And actual ink. It was a big thing on so many levels, and the journey that brought them to right here, to Clint wanting to permanently mark himself forever with a symbol of Bucky’s love for him, was a very long and exceptionally strange one.

**=|=|=|=|=**

Tattoos had always fascinated Clint, and when he was in his early teens he wanted one more than pretty much anything. With the circus folk, however, tattoos tended to carry deeper meanings and implications beyond the actual image, and most of it was stuff Clint wanted nothing to do with, so he stayed away. A blessing in disguise, really, as that certainly saved him from a poorly done anarchy symbol or Misfits Crimson Skull logo, or something equally punk rock and something he’d outgrow. Later, when everything went to shit with Carson’s and he found himself out on his ass, broke and alone save for his bow, the only thing he had to fall back on was trick archery and crime.

Shockingly, there wasn’t huge demand for an archer who could hit a bullseye while blindfolded, hanging from the rafters, and singing Frere Jacques, so he turned to pick-pocketing and odd jobs to get by, which led him straight into the filthy embrace of St. Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls. St. Margaret’s was the sort of bar that was steeped in decades worth of gross and bad ideas that made everyone in it sort of anonymous, which was a bonus, because the place also served as a discrete job fair for mercenaries. If it was also the perfect sort of place to get away with wearing skin-tight leather pants held together with safety pins, or thoroughly shredded Dead Kennedys t-shirts under a leather biker jacket, well, that was just a happy coincidence.

If it were ever to come up in an interview, Clint would condemn the whole damn establishment and the entire concept of mercenary work; and he’d tell everyone how terrible that time in his life was, even if that reality didn’t quite match up with the truth. Clint quickly found a place for himself at St. Margaret’s, repurposing his old circus skills for new uses, and before long he was busy enough that he was turning away jobs. On the rare occasion that Clint was feeling charitable towards himself, he’d say he was a crowd-funded vigilante; he was incredibly selective in the jobs he took, especially as his reputation grew and the jobs got more dangerous. Still, he always got paid top dollar.

He was able to rent out the top floor of an old, converted fire station, covering the copious wall space with band posters and concert flyers. Better still, since the whole damn building was brick, it was almost completely soundproof, so no one ever bitched about the noise. His work as a merc prevented him from getting any visible tattoos or piercings – any visible marks were a liability – and he was young and dumb enough to not see the point of tattoos he couldn’t show off. So, instead, he contented himself by dressing the part and living vicariously through the pretty, pretty people he brought home from punk shows in tiny, crowded basements who were perfectly content to let him trace their tattoos with his fingers or tongue for a night. While, obviously, that period in his life had its own set of problems and he wasn’t necessarily proud of it, it was a good time. Right up until it really wasn’t.

Never let it be said that Clint wasn’t acutely aware of how fucking lucky he was that shit went down the way it did when Fury found him and brought him in to SHIELD. He knew all the possible ways that shit-show of a final job could have gone down; most of them ended with him dead, and those were the favorable outcomes. Instead, he just had to trade his life as he knew it to work for an extra-governmental intelligence agency, though, really, it wasn’t that significantly different. He got real training now and was able to take his already pretty impressive skills in hand-to-hand and stealth to an entirely new level. He learned to fly pretty much any aircraft in existence, including the absolutely awe-inspiring Stealth Bomber, that was not actually as grounded as the US government seemed to think, and every part of that was boner-inducingly awesome. Hell, he even enjoyed learning to wear suits and tuxes and other sorts of fancy clothing. And he really loved learning to dance, which he wasn’t expecting at all, but it was basically a very specific form of especially acrobatic fighting and turned out to be all kinds of fun.

After all the initial training, Clint started being sent out on missions and doing better than anyone expected, and before long he was given his first solo cover mission. Not only did he love it, but he was excellent at it. When he stopped to think about it, it made a certain sort of sense because so much of what he did with the circus was building persona and sticking with it, and he had always been a natural performer. Of course, his new turn as a covert operative – SPY! and Clint wondered if that would ever stop being cool to him – brought him right back to where he had been before, where any sort of body modification was now a liability. Plus, on a much sadder note, Clint had far less free time now than he’d had before, that paired with the fact that his perspective on the world and his place in it had changed pretty significantly with his new role and responsibilities, he found that he was starting to outgrow his punk rock past. Spending a night in a tiny room with dozens of smelly strangers listening to music at approximately a billion decibels no longer seemed appealing in the slightest. He still loved pretty people, but one-night stands were losing their appeal, as he had a couple of arrangements with other agents who understood what he did and didn’t need, and they had to go through regular, mandatory testing. 

Honestly, it was not only a good life, but far better than Clint had ever expected to have. Definitely after Phil had walked into it, acting as both a handler and a friend, both completely new concepts for Clint. Especially after Clint brought Natasha in, after he found his platonic soulmate, someone who just fucking got him and sure, she judged him for some of his more ridiculous shit, but it was in a usually deserved and completely loving sort of way. For the first time, he had someone who knew all his secrets and liked him anyway, hell, she loved him in her way. By the time the Avengers happened, even with all the fuckery that kicked that whole shit-show off, Clint belonged. He thrived. He was a real, bona fide adult, even if his existence was still semi-nomadic. Missions pulled him away for undetermined periods of time fairly regularly, but, thanks to Tony’s unfathomable generosity, he now actually had a home to come back to when missions were done, rather than just a bunk at SHIELD. For the first time in his life, Clint felt he was somewhat stable, or at least as stable as an Agent and Avenger could be, and he had the time and space and money to actually get himself some stuff. Hobby stuff, maybe. Perhaps some pointless decorative stuff. What didn’t really matter, it was just the fact that he no longer needed to make sure he could fit all his belongings in his duffle bag, and it was a heady feeling. At least, it was until he realized that he didn’t really have interests anymore, and his only hobbies were shooting and working out, and his only friend on the planet was Natasha.

As depressing it was to realize that he had no life outside of work anymore, it helped when, a couple of weeks into living at the tower, he figured out that the entire team was in that same sort of situation. Steve gathered the team together to try and set up a training schedule, and they were all surprised to find that none of them had much of anything going on. Sure, Tony had the occasional board meeting, and Nat, Steve, and he could be sent on SHIELD missions, but they were specialized enough that they were only pulled off the shelf for high level missions. Since they rarely had anything to do after training, they’d start eating together in the common kitchen, and before long there were regular movie and game nights. It wasn’t until event nights were rescheduled if someone had to miss that Clint realized that they were more than a team.   It was a completely foreign concept for Clint, feeling like he was a part of something, like there were people in the world who cared about him, but he decided he really liked it. He enjoyed having space and things and interests and people to share them with. This was especially true when Steve and Tony brought Steve’s best friend Bucky in from the cold. 

Meeting Bucky felt a lot like meeting Natasha: he wanted to ignore and save the very dangerous, very pretty person. The two got on like a house on fire from just about the second Steve introduced them. Not only did they have a bunch of shared life experiences - and, really, that alone spoke volumes - but they also had complementary personalities. Without anyone really noticing, they became kinda like the Statler and Waldorf, the cranky old muppets from the muppet show, of the tower; they always seemed to  _ there _ , together, sharing some snarky or sarcastic comment at your expense. Even the two of them were caught off guard by how close they had gotten, when they showed up late to a movie night and the only seat left was an oversized armchair. Neither thought anything about it as the climbed into the chair together, Clint basically sitting in Bucky’s lap, and Bucky resting his metal arm across Clint’s shoulders without thinking.

“Ok, Frostyz, Katniss,” Tony started slowly, blinking at them in confusion, “what, um, what the fuck?”

“Aww, are our super snipers boning?!” Sam chimed in, cackling.

Clit was too stunned to reply, but Bucky sure wasn’t. “Not yet,” he said, stroking his chin contemplatively, “I should probably get on ‘im, eh?” He paused for dramatic effect, “after the movie I guess.” 

Tony just blinked at him before shrugging and telling JARVIS to start the movie, but Steve was staring at the pair with a look of pleased awe on his face, like they were toddlers who had just successfully used the potty for the first time. 

**=|=|=|=|=**

Time marched on, as it is wont to do, and Clint fell more in love with Bucky and off of more buildings, until finally, those two lines crossed and he was forced to make some decisions. It was an Avengers mission, and it was nothing special, and Tony and Clint were both vocal about thinking it beneath their skills. Just another baby sorcerer enchanting play equipment and ducks and shit, but Dr. Strange said that this one had potential to get bad and fast, so there they were, suited up and giving their best. It looked like everything was wrapping up, when, of course, it all went Tango Uniform. 

Bucky can tell when Clint starts to wake up, and has no idea what to do. He is so mad, and so fucking worried, and so absofuckinglutely  _ relieved _ that his love is actually waking up, and he can’t seem to pick a feeling to run with, so when Clint finally opens his eyes, it is to see Bucky with tears in his eyes and his mouth set in a scowl. Clint tries talk, but he’s intubated, so it is fruitless, and with one arm in a cast and the other being held firmly-but-gently between Bucky’s, he isn’t even able to sign. 

“You were in a tree taking out enchanted birds. It looked like we were done. You didn’t wait for Sam or Tony to get you out of the tree, just jumped and hoped they’d catch you before you hit the ground. It didn’t matter. The sorcerer or whatever saw you, enchanted the tree, so a branch hit you in the side and slammed you to the ground. You’re broken. Yout left side. From your left clavicle to left tibia. Your foot is fine, so there’s that. So is your spine and spinal cord. You will walk again, and you will probably be able to draw a bow again. Maybe.” Bucky states all of this wish a clinical detachment, but his nerve betray him as he lets out a slow breath. “Oh, and you have a concussion.”

There is literally nothing else Clint can do, so he closes his eyes. He just can’t bring himself to look at Bucky. Can’t handle knowing he put that miserable look on that gorgeous face. 

“Look, I” Bucky started, but he has nowhere to go with the thought, and he knows it. “I want, so badly, to be mad at you for not waiting for Tony or Sam, but we watched Tony’s playback, and he would have gotten to you in time, which means we don’t actually know that the same thing wouldn’t have happened if you had stayed where you were. And I am not mad at you. You have to know that, love. I am just mad that it happened. I am mad that if it had been me, I would be home and mostly healed already, and I am mad because I hate seein’ you like this. I - we -” he takes a fortifying breath, but his voice still cracks when he continues, “we almost lost ya, and I can’t, Cint, I just can’t let that happen.”

Even drugged and worried, Clint is a smart man, and he can put together some things from what Bucky has said, and what he hasn't. The team has been through a debrief and reviewed battle footage, so he has been out for at least a full day. And that, sometime while he was unconscious, he died. While it wouldn’t be the first time he technically died, it would be the first time that it has happened since he’s been with Bucky. All at once, he is hit with the realization of how he would feel if their situation was reversed, and left him cold. He also knew that he wouldn’t be bouncing back from this one. There would be no cutting the casts off early and coming up with his own PT schedule to get back on the active roster as soon as he was able. 

He did his best to squeeze Bucky’s hand before he closed his eyes and tried to will himself back to sleep.

**=|=|=|=|=**

By the time he was released from medical, Clint had a few new incontrovertible truths: breaking the left side of your body fucking  _ sucked, _ nearly dying when your boyfriend and bestfriend are Russian-trained assassins is scarier than nearly dying alone, and it was time for him to retire. At 48, he is one of the oldest active field agents in SHIELD history, and, even if he is able to fully recover from this, he won’t recover from the next one. It’s all good though; he’s had a good run. Plus, now that he has people waiting for him at home, has a life and a family, no matter how unconventional and organized by an AI, who would all prefer him alive. 

Gathering up every bit of courage he can muster, he calls the team together to tell them. No one tries to talk him out of it, which stings for all of a second, before Tony starts enthusiastically planning the retirement party.

**=|=|=|=|=**

Like most people, Clint’s first tattoo was small, and mostly an accident. A small thing situated between his shoulder blades, just under where a shirt collar would cover, was done on a whim at his retirement party, to commemorate his retirement– from SHIELD, from the Avengers, and from Hawkeye in general – and was a sweet little tribute to the Avengers; a stylized version of the Avengers A covered by a 6 in such a way that it gave a little nod to each of the six original avengers. He learned all about it as he watched Tony get the same one on his inner right bicep, because of course Tony Stark would provide a tattooer on retainer at a retirement party. Clint just sat, perched on Bucky’s lap, smiling and nursing his beer as Steve, to everyone but Tony’s surprise, took the next turn in the tattoo chair to get his team tattoo.

“Tony asked me to come up with something,” Steve started shyly, “even though I am not that kind of artist. I didn’t know it was for a tattoo at the time, though.”

“Th’ fuck does that have to do with you getting a tattoo, Punk?” Bucky was incredulous, and clearly caught off guard.

“None’a your business, Jerk. But, y’know, I’ve always wanted one, and there doesn’t seem to be a better reason than something like this. A permanent reminder of something good and important. ‘Sides,” he adds with a shrug, “there’s a pretty good chance that it won’t take ‘cause’a the serum.”

One after another the rest of the team took their turn in the chair. Thor approached it with the same enthusiasm he seemed to have for everything, even after Tony pointed out that permanent meant something a little different for him than the rest of the team. Bruce was a little bit of a surprise, the reserved doctor not seeming the type, but he smiled as a little green bled into his complexion and explained that the Hulk was a big fan of the idea.

It was Natasha getting in the chair that really got his attention, though. She gave him a challenging look as she stripped off her left shoe and indicated where she wanted her mark. “Why, Hawkeye, you seem surprised. Have a problem with women with tattoos?”

“Fuck, Tash,” he laughed, “you know I don’t, it’s just” he trailed off. “Y’know, a whole thing,” he said waving his hands in a vague gesture and looking intensely uncertain.

“Yes, it really is, but,” she paused to deliberately look around the room, at the small group there with them. The tight-knit group of people she had grown to trust, even though it meant ignoring every last instinct and bit of training the Red Room had left her with. She visibly relaxed, then, and Clint wondered if anyone else noticed. “I’m not that far behind you, you know. And It isn’t like I will be going on missions for SHIELD. I am not sure if you heard, but my partner retired, and I am entirely too old and set in my ways to break in a new one. Besides, I will finally get to live out the punk rock fantasies from my misspent youth.” She punctuates that thought with a salacious wink, almost certainly confusing everyone but Clint.

“Ok, fine.” He takes a breath; there is nothing stopping him now. Distinguishing marks aren’t a liability, and no one really cares if retired Avengers have tattoos. “ I call next.”

**=|=|=|=|=**

People talk about tattoos being addicting, but that isn’t exactly true, at least not all the time. It is more like, making the decision to get the first tattoo is hard. It is crossing a line, going from being a person who doesn’t have tattoos, to being a person who does. There are plenty of valid reasons and bullshit excuses for not getting that first tattoo, but most of those become invalid as soon as the tattoo needle touches skin. 

With no good reason not to, Clint pursued every ridiculous tattoo idea that crossed his mind, and Bucky supported him the whole time, covering them in aquaphor while they healed, and then tracing them with his fingers or his tongue when they had. He had no idea who the Misfits were when Clint got the weird skull-face-thing tattooed on his side, but he listened along, caught up in his lover’s excitement. 

For the next year, as soon as the last tattoo was healed, Clint was in the chair for the next one. “You can’t get more than one at a time. It isn’t fair. You have to take time to show each one off,” Clint explained, as if that were a fundamental truth of the universe. Before long, his entire left arm was covered in ink (and if it was to cover up the scars from the several surgeries needed to correct the damage received on his last mission, no one would ever say anything) and he had others spattered across his body. 

Each one was full of meaning and importance to Clint, so, when he asked Bucky if it would be ok if he got his lip-print tattooed, it really wasn’t a surprise from a tattoo standpoint. And, sure, they had been together - inseparable, really - for years, but a tattoo was a hell of a lot more permanent than, well, pretty much anything else. 

“Love,” Bucky, starts slowly, “d’ ya know what your asking?”

“Uh, yeah. I am asking you to put on lipstick and kiss my neck, so my tattoo guy can trace over it.” Clint cocked his head and he explained, confused and trying very hard not too look hurt. 

“You want me, where everyone can see, on your skin? Forever?”

Clint just blinked at him, looking even more confused. “Yeah. Yes. Obviously.”

“Ok, hold on,” and he turns on his heel and walks away. 

Several agonizing minutes later, he returns, and Clint looks like he is about to crawl out of his skin when he is presented with a small ring box sitting on Bucky’s outstretched hand. 

“I’ve had this for a while, waitin’ to make sure it was somethin’ you really wanted, but your idea is better, I think. Proves a point. You’d be ok if I did the same, yeah?” Bucky really tries not to sound nervous, but probably fails by a few miles. Steve’s tattoo did stick, so Bucky’s probably would too, but he didn’t have any, and for his first to be so… much, well, that was a fucking thing, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, Buck. I’d be ok with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I can be found [on tumblr](http://ussfriendship.tumblr.com).


End file.
